


How Can You Miss What You’ve Never Had? (AKA Insecurities Suck)

by peanutbutterpianist



Series: Firsts Are Complicated (Should They Be?) [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Firsts, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Canon, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sleeping Together, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-07 00:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10348623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanutbutterpianist/pseuds/peanutbutterpianist
Summary: First Request, Part Two (First Time Being Held):Yuuri's first week of living together with Victor is...long, mostly. It's wonderful too, of course, and living together is what Yuuri wanted, sure...but he can't help but wonder why things don't quite feel right. He doesn't know what Victor wants from him, or why his fiance has been behaving so strangely.There's suddenly a wall between them that Yuuri, frankly, doesn't remember building.If Victor wants something, he's taking much too long to ask.





	1. Main Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> The second installment is here! The theme for this 'first' is, surprisingly, NOT 'first week living together', but rather a continuation of Part One's 'First Request' theme: this time, Victor wants something and is the one afraid to ask for it...
> 
> There is a brief omake, from Victor's POV; I'll happily post it if y'all are curious enough...  
> Also, yes there will be installments from Victor's POV very soon. Your patience shall be rewarded.
> 
> Thank-you for all the reviews and kudos on Part One--you all make this community such a wonderful and supportive place to be, and while I'm new here, I already feel rather welcomed and valued.

It had been a week. A long, _long_ week, as far as Yuuri was concerned.

Way. Too. Long.

            Not necessarily bad. Just…long.

 

            It had started with a sleepless, cramped flight into Pulkovo on a Friday, followed by a ride in an old taxi that reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap vodka (at least he knew the difference between the smell of ‘good’ vodka and the god-forsaken variety Christophe inexplicably loved). Then there was the excursion from the curb to Victor’s apartment, with numb and tingly limbs and a single suitcase. Yuuri had found himself caught between the foggy curtain of familiar exhaustion and the sharp, new prickling of _this is actually, happening I’m actually here, in St. Petersburg, with Victor_. His bottom lip was also caught somewhere, firmly between his teeth, as he fought to keep any unbidden, exhausted, overwhelmed tears at bay while Victor gave him the grand tour of his apartment. Yuuri had settled his tiny suitcase in the corner of the office-turned-guest-bedroom, hung his coat in the closet beside Victor’s (he regretted that immediately—it was _so_ cold, even indoors), and somehow ended up dozing on the couch for several hours promptly thereafter.

            It wasn’t his fault, really; the cushions were worn just enough to be unfairly comfortable, and a clingy Makkachin proved to be a perfect source of heat.

            Dinner passed quietly, with Victor chattering about where to find the grocery store and how the transport system worked and a few other things that Yuuri had struggled to process; he’d have to ask for the information again in the morning anyway, but at least he could _try_ to seem attentive to his excited host.

            Victor had been kind enough to have already set up the other room with a fresh set of sheets and extra blankets to cushion the pullout bed there, and had piled up enough pillows for at least three people. It was very thoughtful, if not a little over-the-top, and very, _very_ Victor. The Russian was prattling around about how he should have prepared better by getting an actual mattress and better sheets and something else that Yuuri tuned out with a lopsided smirk.

            His fiancé was truly ridiculous sometimes, and it warmed Yuuri’s heart just as much as it threatened to give him a headache.

It shouldn’t have felt odd to Yuuri to sleep in a separate bed; it wasn’t as if he and Victor shared a bed regularly anyway, but it _was_ unusual to stay in separate rooms, after the past few months of travel and sharing a single hotel room. But the night—despite the street noise that seeped through the walls and the single, heavily curtained window—was just so, _so_ quiet without Victor’s even breathing and occasional, sputtering snores. Too quiet, really. Makkachin joined him midway through the night, which helped.

            When morning came, there was suddenly this strange distance between them, like someone had erected a cinderblock wall between them the instant they had crossed the threshold into Victor’s apartment without either of them even noticing. Yuuri hated it more with each passing moment, especially with how the barrier would seem to disappear each morning over breakfast, which was filled with too-sweet coffee and too many stolen touches across the table and plenty of stupid giggles over stupid things. The wall stayed away during practice, which they started a mere thirty-six hours after landing in Pulkovo, because _jetlag be damned_ , Yuuri already missed being on the ice. (Victor had laughed at that with something especially affectionate in the sound that guarded Yuuri’s cheeks against the chill on Makkachin’s morning walk.)

They were normal even as they were feeling out their shifting dynamics from fiancés at home, to competitors as Victor trained during Yuuri’s warm-ups, then to coach-and-pupil in the afternoon, and back to the ‘gross couple’ as they helped one another out of their skates under Yurio’s scathing glare. Things felt pretty normal, or at least as normal as they could be. They were figuring things out together, working out their schedules and bantering, and holding hands as they walked, and blushing like a couple of tenth-graders all the while. Every day, from that long flight on Friday onward. Which was fine.

But _oh,_ that _stupid_ wall…

            The wall wasn’t even _quite_ there in the evenings, as they started making a habit of lounging on the couch in the living room together after dinner, reading or catching up on social media or watching something pointless on the telly.

On their second night in St. Petersburg, they had sat side-by-side, sides and thighs touching. Makkachin was splayed across their laps as they poured over Phichit’s Instagram antics. Yuuri was blushing furiously the entire time, but he couldn’t find it in himself to complain.

The following night, they curled onto opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled into a knot in the middle and soft blushes on both their faces. Victor’s feet were like icicles, pressed into Yuuri’s calves and the inner crease of his knee, but Yuuri would be lying to say he hadn’t enjoyed the contact.

The fourth night, Yuuri busied himself with finally starting to _actually_ unpack what little he’d brought, and then with trying to make better sense of where everything in the kitchen was. Victor puttered around close behind with an unreadable expression on his face, occasionally chiming in to tell Yuuri where the tall glasses were and where he usually kept bread, whenever he remembered to actually buy some.

The fifth night, they found NHK on the cable listing; Victor put it on with a lopsided grin, and Yuuri knew that it was meant to help ease any homesickness he hadn’t brought up amidst their busy schedules. The thought made his eyes water and all his insides feel like a pot of comfortably warm tea, sloshing around to the edges of his being. He feared that if he moved too fast, something might spill out, so he gently tugged Victor down to the sofa beside him. The program was quickly forgotten as he snuggled deep into his fiancé’s embrace, body slid between Victor’s long legs and his cheek pressed to Victor’s chest. He wondered if Victor was smiling, but couldn’t bring himself to move to be able to see. So instead he took the Russian’s hand in his own, interweaved their fingers, and pressed the smallest of kisses to Victor’s knuckles. The other man sputtered something unintelligible, and Yuuri didn’t have to see his face to know that everything, for that moment, was perfect, even if that stupid wall would return by the time they went to bed.

The sixth night, they had both been run ragged by Yakov and decided to turn in early. Yuuri glanced up to bathroom mirror to see himself and a half-dressed Victor shoulder to shoulder as they brushed their teeth, and felt a little thrill at placing his toothbrush beside Victor’s in the cabinet. It felt…great, wonderful, exhilarating, kind of mind-boggling.

At least, it felt great until he returned to ‘his’ room, Makkachin left to doze in the living room on the rug, and he marveled at the Victor-less bed and Victor-less room and…and simply wondered at how much of this was his fiancé trying to be considerate of all the changes Yuuri was going through with the move, and how much was a real _distance_ in their relationship.

Ah, there was that _stupid_ wall again, the one Yuuri didn’t even remember building in the first place, but was just _there_.

Yuuri wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. Maybe they should talk. They probably _should_ talk.

He glanced around, seeing the two pillows in plain pillowcases on the pull out bed and the stack of four more in varying forms of stripes and fleur-de-lis on the chair by the desk in the corner. He saw his plain black suitcase in the other corner with its worn corners, not quite emptied yet but still _there,_ contrasted with the sleek modern bookcase full of volumes in Russian— _only_ Russian.

He felt a bit like a foreigner.

Which he was, technically. But _still_.

Yuuri sighed to himself and flopped onto the comforter. It smelled like lavender and little bit like Makkachin.

He wasn’t homesick, exactly.

He just wasn’t sure…how _welcome_ he really was. Which was silly, because Victor was a wonderful, enthusiastic host. The _perfect_ host.

But wasn’t Victor also his…his _fiancé?_

Yuuri buried his face in the crook of his arm; his sleeve didn’t smell like lavender or Makkachin or anything remotely _Russian_. It smelled like Hasetsu’s ocean his own sweat.

They _definitely_ needed to talk.

That was a terrifying idea, but as Yuuri clutched an extra pillow to his chest to try to mute to rapid throb of his anxious pulse, he knew a talk—a _real_ talk—would be for the best.

If Victor wanted to sleep separately, that was fine. Completely fine. But Yuuri wanted to know _why_.

He _needed_ to know why.

So the wall _had_ to go.

 

It had officially been a week since Yuuri had moved into Victor’s apartment; that was Yuuri’s first thought as he started easing into consciousness on Friday morning. But then Yuuri snapped awake with a rush to the harsh tang of smoke and Makkachin’s barking.

His fiancé (adorable, yes, but _occasionally_ incompetent, in Yuuri’s opinion) had attempted to make breakfast while Yuuri slept in, only to set off the fire alarm by burning butter in a pan. (Burning. _Butter_. In a pan.) He’d apparently turned his back and gotten distracted by trying to make sense of the label on a box of _miso_ stock that Yuuri hadn’t known Victor had bought.

_Oh, Victor…_

Yuuri found himself laughing at the entire situation as he opened the nearest window, and surprised _himself_ by then reaching up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the rosy-tinted bridge of Victor’s nose, morning breath be damned, like it was natural. (Somehow, it did _feel_ natural, at least, in the sense that he hadn’t really thought about doing it, and was still laughing too hard to mull it over after the fact.) He took over salvaging breakfast, noting the odd look on Victor’s face after his initial joy at the surprise kiss had faded. He ruffled Victor’s hair with affection later in the hallway as they parted ways to change for practice, hoping it would help.

Practice was productive. Yuuri felt like liquid focus on the ice even in his warm-ups. Victor moved with the sharpness of a new razorblade in all the best ways under Yakov’s barking orders, and Yuuri soaked in every glimpse he could, letting the resulting mental images fuel him through the entire afternoon. His muscles ached deliciously, easing under the steam of the shower back at Victor’s apartment before dinner. But Victor, for some reason, had lost the exhilarated shimmer on his expression halfway through their walk home.

If the wall was starting to affect _Victor_ this much, then the wall absolutely _had_ to go. _Now_.

Dinner was unnervingly quiet, as far as Yuuri was concerned; the Russian’s prattling was blatantly absent, and it made Yuuri’s heart sink as he struggled for words to fill the voice. (He was awful at it, he decided, as he watched Victor chew.) Victor had waited to take his shower until after he’d finished scarfing down the leftover chicken they’d reheated, promptly disappearing into the bathroom in a flourish with a cheeky, false smile.

It was _absolutely_ time to talk, Yuuri decided, rubbing at his breastbone absentmindedly. He cleared the table and set to washing the dishes, hoping to not lose the dinner he’d just eaten thanks to the knots his stomach was twisting itself into. He was a little terrified, honestly; was he doing something wrong? Was Victor having second thoughts about living together? Was Victor just stretched too thin, coaching and being coached at once? Yuuri tried to breathe in time with the noisy ticks of the clock on the opposite wall and fingered at his ring. It helped a little.

When Victor returned with a towel draped over his shoulder, still maintaining that god-awful fake smile and miraculously wearing both pajamas bottoms _and_ a shirt, to announce that he was going to bed, Yuuri decidedly pounced.

Well, not literally, of course. But he _did_ look his fiancé in the eye as firmly as he could, and tried to get his voice to match. “Victor,” he said, unblinking, “we need to talk.”

Victor responded with a tiny jump and a look of panic, gripping his damp head towel and wringing it in his hands. “T-Talk? Of course, Yuuri; what about?”

Yuuri mentally smacked himself. Things were already coming out all wrong. _Dammit_. _Good one, Yuuri._ “Relax, Victor. Just…come sit with me. Please?”

It took _way_ too many seconds for Victor to follow Yuuri to the couch, in the younger skater’s opinion. He was also sitting much too far away. It made Yuuri antsy in ways he hadn’t been since the banquet after the GPF.

“What did you want to talk about, Yuuri?” Victor was at least trying to be pleasant, though he had started folding and unfolding his towel repeatedly, eyes hazy and unfocused.

Yuuri watched him, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He needed to do this. He took a steadying breath. “Victor, what’s wrong?”

Victor’s hands stopped. “Wrong?”

Yuuri sighed heavily, grasping at the Russian’s hands and removing the towel, tossing it on the floor—expensive hardwoods be damned. “You’ve been off ever since I moved in with you. Am I…am I doing something to upset you?”  
            “What? No!” The answer was too swift. Yuuri’s stomach churned. “Of course not! Yuuri, I’m so happy you’re here, and I’m sure it can’t be easy moving halfway around the world, although you did live in Detroit for five years, so I’m not saying you’re not capable of it, of course not, because of course you _are_ , but I want this to be as easy on you as it can and—”

“Victor. Stop.” God, his fiancé was ridiculous sometimes. They weren’t getting anywhere. “I’m not homesick—not yet anyway. And yes, you’re right; it isn’t easy moving in with you,” he winced as the words came out—that _wasn’t_ what he’d wanted to say, so he swept on. “But only because sometimes I’m not sure…well, I wonder, if you actually want me here. I’m really not sure what you want, lately.”  
            Victor looked up at that, half startled and half something else that Yuuri couldn’t identify. “What on earth would make you think that, _solnyshko_?”

Yuuri ignored the endearment, which he didn’t understand anyway. “You…you don’t seem happy. When we come home.” It was Yuuri’s turn to glance sideways, voice dropping. “We’re okay when we’re at the rink, or shopping, or walking Makkachin. But whenever we come home, you don’t look _happy_ anymore. And then we’ll have dinner, and sometimes it seems like you must be feeling a little better…” Yuuri swallowed, and the words kept coming “And you know, I was surprised that you had set up a separate bedroom for me…which is fine, if that’s what you want, but—”

“It’s not.”

Yuuri felt his breath catch, and snapped his head up to look at the Russian beside him, rambling abandoned. “It’s not?”

“I wanted to just move you into my bedroom, but I thought that would be too much too fast for you. Too much change—and I know you’re not a big fan of change. But I…” Victor trailed off, eyes drifting shut. He looked like a small child who’d been caught stealing cookies from his mother’s jar. “I’m sorry I’ve been so moody, Yuuri. It’s just…I miss sharing a room with you. I’ve missed _you_. In my bed. I’m sorry.”

_I’m sorry_. Sorry for…for _what?_

Yuuri just breathed for a minute. He was afraid of doing much of anything else, what with how his insides seemed to be unfurling like dry noodles in hot water and things in his head started to click together.

_I’m sorry?_ For being moody? For _missing_ him? For wanting to share a bed, but trying to be considerate of his anxieties in the move?

He looked at Victor, took in the quiver of his paper-thin eyelids and the blue veins that snaked across them.

Yuuri just kept breathing and watching for a long while. At some point, he leaned forward until his forehead was resting against his fiancé’s, and breathed a bit longer against his alabaster skin. “I’ve missed you, too.” He felt Victor tremble against him, even just through the small contact. “Can we sleep together tonight, then?”

Victor murmured something unintelligible, but nodded against the bridge of Yuuri’s nose.

It probably shouldn’t have felt awkward, walking into Victor’s bedroom and watching the older man switch off the lights. Victor had thrown himself wantonly onto Yuuri’s bedspace more times than Yuuri could count over the past eight months. They had occasionally pushed their beds together in hotel rooms on nights that Yuuri’s anxiety was threatening to steal much-needed sleep from him, enjoying each other’s warm presence on opposite ends of the bed, or with their backs pressed together, or in a loose hold, Yuuri’s back to Victor’s front.

So why did this feel so… _different?_ Awkward? _Weird?_

Maybe because Yuuri was sitting on the edge of _Victor’s_ bed, for a change, fiddling with the drawstring of his pajama pants, while the silver haired man sat on the other edge, looking as lost as Yuuri felt. Maybe even more so.

It broke Yuuri’s heart a little, seeing his own feelings reflected in Victor’s face. Victor shouldn’t _ever_ have to feel the way Yuuri did in that moment—anxiety was a _bitch,_ after all.

The wall should have been rubble by now. Weren’t they solving the problem? A simple misunderstanding: that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

Yuuri re-tied the knot on his pants for the fifth time.

“So…what do you want to do?”

That was an odd set of words—awkward, even—something that Yuuri would have expected _himself_ to say. But alas, those words had tumbled from the mouth of none other than Victor Nikiforov. Beautiful, graceful, suave _Victor Nikiforov_.

_What the hell?_

Yuuri took off his glasses and reached behind himself to set them on Victor’s nightstand; the lights were already off, so he couldn’t _really_ see much anyway.

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment, fishing for words and coming up empty. “Whatever you want, I guess.”

There was an odd sound, almost like teeth grinding, followed by what sounded vaguely like “No”.

Yuuri felt himself blinking rapidly. “P-Pardon?”

“I…never mind, just get into bed, Yuuri.” Victor’s tone was odd, and it made Yuuri’s skin crawl with a thousand bees, stingers poised.

“W-What? Victor, don’t be short with me.”

“I’m not!” A sharp exhale followed the outburst.

Yuuri turned to glare at the vaguely humanoid shape on the other corner of the mattress. He knew he shouldn’t let his tone get snippy, but he couldn’t help it. “Look, just tell me what you want, alright?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” The Japanese man huffed, impatient.

“Because I don’t want to push you!”

Yuuri couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t believe his eyes either; was that a flash of _anger_ he caught on Victor’s face? He knew his vision sucked without his glasses on, but he knew Victor’s face well enough and this was… _ugh, seriously?_ _What the hell?_ “Y-You won’t!” he spat back.

“Just drop it, Yuuri.” There was that sound again, like the clenching of a jaw, this time followed by a sharp inhale, probably through teeth, gauging by the almost whistle of air accompanying it.

“No!” Yuuri slipped off the comforter and practically stamped through all three paces it took to stand in front of Victor’s blurry form. “I want this, too, _dammit_.” He lowered his voice a few decibels, suddenly very aware of the fact they’d actually been _yelling_ at each other. “I don’t get what your problem is. You won’t push me, Victor.”  
            “But what if I _do_?” Victor’s voice was suddenly very, _very_ soft.

Oh, that was a surprise.

Yuuri drew a long breath, almost reaching out to grab Victor by the shoulders to shake some sense into him, but he refrained. Victor had sounded… _something,_ just then. Quieter. Nervous, maybe?

Yuuri didn’t want to run through the possibilities. His insides were in enough knots right then as it was.

“You won’t,” Yuuri said instead. “I won’t let you.”

Victor was quiet. Victor was deathly still, head bowed.

“ _Victoru_?” The last syllable came unbidden, flipping off a Japanese tongue.

“I’m scared.”

Yuuri’s heart sank.

_I’m scared of pushing you too far. I’m scared of frightening you away. I’m scared of losing you._

He heard it. Somewhere in his bones, he heard it.

And he’d heard it before. He _hated_ the word, at least coming from Victor’s mouth. It didn’t _belong_ there. Not when…

“I’m…I’m scared, too.” Victor looked up, eyes catching what little light there was just enough for Yuuri to see their sheen, like polished river stones. “I have been, for a long time. All this week, too. I’ve been afraid I was doing something wrong, and this would all end. And I guess I’m scared of actually _being_ with you, too.” He put a finger to the Russian’s lips as he started interjecting, halting him gently. “But…I miss you, you know? Didn’t I say so earlier? And I want this. So, even though I’m afraid, I want _you_. And I want you to be happy, Victor. So what do you want?”

Victor surprised him by reaching for his hand and by not gripping as tight as Yuuri had expected. His pale hands were tepid, his slender fingers quivering. Yuuri had never noticed the callouses on his pointer and middle finger before, or the tiny, scabbing cut on his thumb. “Would you…” There was an audible swallow, and Victor’s next words were nearly inaudible, they were so quiet. Luckily Yuuri had already started leaning forward to hear him better. “Would you hold me? Please?”

It was such a simple, innocent request that in any other circumstance, Yuuri was sure he’d be doubled over laughing. But Victor sounded _terrified_ , and his eyes were screwed shut, and his hands were shaking Yuuri’s grasp, and he was wiggling his feet closer together, and his shoulders were drooping and…

“Of course,” he breathed. He almost asked ‘how’, as his mental capacities struggled to return, but he stayed quiet, trying to get Victor to look him in the eye instead by kneeling in between his legs and touching their noses together.

He waited. Still, quiet. Patient. He let Victor’s hands tremble and his shoulders sag further forward. Yuuri felt like he was kneeling in a temple back home, listening for the rustle of the wind, the voice of a spirit answering a prayer. He waited, reverent, drinking Victor in.

Victor finally opened his eyes, platinum lashes fluttering slowly, like they were made of lead. “Could you get in bed first?” he queried.

Yuuri hummed ascent and slipped between the covers, feeling the other’s eyes on him. He lay on his side and waited again. “Victor?”

“Would you…would you lay back?”

He blinked. “Okay.” Yuuri shifted as requested, fluffing the pillow beneath the back of his head as he did so, giving his twitching hands something to do. He trained his unfocused eyes on the silhouette of his fiancé.

He waited.

Victor finally moved, slow as molasses, his limbs looking much weightier than Yuuri had ever seen them. The older man’s face was drawn, tense, seemingly trying to gauge _everything,_ Yuuri thought, as he came close enough for his vision to start making out some semblance of detail.

Did Yuuri look like some sort of prey animal, ready to bolt for the door? He didn’t _think_ that he did…sure, his insides were a little bit of a mess—or a _lot_ a bit of a mess, to be fair—and his pulse was probably somewhere in the unhealthy range…but Yuuri wasn’t _scared_ of Victor. He was pretty certain that feelings he wasn’t actually _feeling_ couldn’t just show up on his face.

Oh, but Victor had said _he_ was scared, so…

“Victor, it’s okay. Come here.” He had tried to make his voice light, maybe teasing, but the words came out with a crack more fitting of a pubescent teenager than he wanted. _Dammit_. Regardless, Victor’s gaze flashed up to meet his own, and they looked…a _little_ more sure. Maybe.

            Soon enough, there was a warm, solid body pressed up against Yuuri’s own and a heavy head, crowned with a silvery mop of fuzz, laid carefully against the center of his chest. Every line in Victor’s body, every muscle, every joint, was tensed. Stiff.

Yuuri probably wasn’t much better off.

            “You’re nervous,” Victor observed, not-so-helpfully.

            Yuuri wanted to roll his eyes, though he knew Victor wouldn’t see them anyway. He wanted some sense of _normalcy_ so badly, but _oh well_ ; this was where they were right now. “A little, I guess,” Yuuri confirmed after a moment. “So are you.”

            Victor started a little, so Yuuri practically slapped a hand to his shoulders to hold him in place, afraid he was about to dart off. Yuuri took a long breath, watching Victor’s head bob with it. _Dammit_ , he was _not_ going to mess this up. “So why this?” he asked on the exhale, airily.

            The Russian shuffled a little so that his feet were tucked against Yuuri’s calves. They were cold, and Yuuri fought the urge to flinch away. “You…you always look happy when I hold you. At peace.” His hand reached across Yuuri’s hip to grasp at the soft fabric of his pants. “I guess I was always curious why, what it must feel like.”

            Oh. “When was the last time you were held, Victor?” The words were out too soon, and Yuuri wished he could eat them, take them back into his mouth. _How inappropriate, what a stupid question, why would he—_

            “I don’t remember.”

            Oh.

            _Oh._

Oh, _Victor._

            Yuuri could have sworn that his heart stopped for a moment, and his breath hitched as painfully as a skinned knee. Victor made a move to sit up, but Yuuri’s grip on his shoulder tightened. _Don’t you dare go,_ he all but screamed _._ After a moment, Yuuri, in a moment of oxygen-deprived boldness, slipped a hand up Victor’s back, under his shirt, to stroke gently up and down his spine. Clumps of pimply gooseflesh rose like tiny milfoil blossoms to meet the pad of each finger.

            “Okay.” Yuuri wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying ‘okay’ for. That _this_ was okay? That _they_ were okay? He didn’t know, but somehow, it made Victor relax into him a little.

            “Are you still nervous?”

            Yuuri paused his ministrations. “No?”

            “Oh.” Victor’s hips wriggled. “Then, what are you feeling right now?”

            Yuuri took a moment to figure things out, cataloguing the slow pace but notably heavy _thuds_ of his own heartbeats against Victor’s ear. “Worried. And happy, I guess.”

            “Worried?” He could practically _hear_ the frown in Victor’s voice.

            “About you.”

            “Oh.” A breath. “And happy?”

            Yuuri spoke slowly. “…Because you’re here?”

            “Oh.” Another breath. “Okay.”

            Yuuri blinked up at the ceiling; his fiancé’s frame was still full of tension, like a coiled spring. “Are you still nervous, Victor?”

            “Not really.”

Yuuri slowed his the strokes of his hand on Victor’s back. “What are you feeling right now, then?”

He could feel the catch-breath Victor snatched more than he could hear it. “I…don’t know. A lot.”

Yuuri almost pried. _Almost_. But his shirt was quickly becoming damp, and Victor’s words had gotten progressively more quiet and higher in pitch until he was almost squeaking, so he didn’t.

_Wait_.

Was Victor _crying_?

“ _Victoru_.” Damn that extra syllable and the crack in his voice that accompanied it. Yuuri cleared his throat as unobtrusively as he could. He stormed ahead anyway before he could think twice: he _had_ to fix this, after all. “Can I translate something for you?”

There was a hum and a small, carefully controlled snuffle.

He tapped into Victor’s bare back, like Morse code. Two taps; just two little thuds. He repeated it, and knew he had the other’s attention. “I’m here,” he said in English, in time with two of the little taps. Victor’s grip on the fabric of his pants shifted to his hip, so Yuuri kept going. Two firmer taps, followed by another pair of beats. “ _Suki da yo,_ ” he broke out, each syllable in time with one of those heavy taps.

The room was terribly silent.

“Y-You know what that means right?” Yuuri asked, hesitant.

Victor hummed some semblance of a response, but otherwise remained still and silent.

“D-Do you understand?”

Victor seemed to have gone mute, but he did give the tiniest nod against Yuuri’s chest.

Yuuri found himself quickly distracted by embarrassment. The weight of the cheesy display, not even worthy of the worst romance flick, started to close in on his spine, making it tingle uncomfortably, and so he hadn’t noticed how Victor had suddenly gone utterly boneless against him.

At least, he hadn’t noticed until a long, wet sniff and a rather kitten-like whimper made him look down at his own chest, where his fiancé had curled in tighter, closer, _needier_. A little rush of warmth—not a jolt, nothing that violent or jarring, but more like an ocean’s wave, knocking him over and sucking him out and pushing him back to shore, shaken but none worse for wear—shot through him. Yuuri finally figured out in that moment what to do with his left hand, which had been flopped uselessly beside him on the mattress for who-knows-how-long. He trailed his fingers through Victor’s silver locks and slid them down by feel alone to his cheeks, brushing the tears there aside as gently as he could. He let his hand come to rest with a gossamer touch along Victor’s sharp jaw, cupping the fragility of the Russian’s pearlescent face.

“I love you so much, Yuuri.” The words weren’t as startling as they probably should have been, but Yuuri had admittedly felt them coming in the tumbling of Victor’s pulse where his fingertips were gently pressed, and in the sharpness of the breath that slid across his own collarbone.

It was precious, really. Everything. Everything about it.

“I do, too,” Yuuri found himself saying, a little breathless.

Victor laughed that time, free and childlike and a little hoarse, and Yuuri could feel the upturn of his lover’s lips, seemingly everywhere. Yuuri found himself wanting more of it all the same. “I know you do,” Victor murmured, voice light, “You keep telling me that.” He gave no indication of intending to move anywhere, and Yuuri let go of a long, uneven breath.

He clutched his fiancé as close to himself as he could, planted a kiss to the closest bit of Victor’s head he could reach, and smiled some sort of tremulous smile into his hair when Victor laughed, clearly a bit puzzled at the action but decidedly not complaining.

At some point, as Victor lay counting the _I’m here’s_ and _Suki da yo’s_ in Yuuri’s heartbeat, Yuuri had felt something crumble.

The wall was nowhere to be seen.


	2. Omake (Extra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Morning After: AKA sometimes reality is even better than what lives in our dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wanted more fluff? I have more fluff for you. (Always.) Short and sweet this time, and from Victor's POV (a teaser of things to come).
> 
> Which is good, because I bring with me promises of future installments to this series that are a little more on the...'angsty' side? Darker? Heavier?
> 
> So please enjoy this plotless fluff in the meantime.
> 
> Thank-you for you support!

Victor wondered vaguely where he was. He’d just been running down some beach with Makkachin, warm sand between his toes and the beginnings of a sunburn tingling his back…which was wonderful. But obviously not real. He could feel his familiar bedsheets—his favorite eight-hundred-count Egyptian cotton sheets—against his back, and he knew he wasn’t sunburned. He was still in St. Petersburg. His head felt like it was somewhere in the clouds…oh but _what clouds?_ He was indoors. Which was a good thing; he would rather not have fallen asleep outside somehow.

It was so _comfortable._ He couldn’t _bear_ to even _think_ of moving; he didn’t think his bed had never been this warm, not even with Makkachin beside him…

Wait. Was this even _his_ bed? The mattress felt unusually firm…oh wait, his mattress was indeed there, soft and yielding, right under his behind, cushioning his hip. But the rest of him was resting on something…solid? And warm? Oh, and it moved a little under him.

How weird.

And it wasn’t quiet, either; there had been mornings where he could swear he could hear his own heartbeat resonating in his own head—usually if he was _terribly_ hung-over and _dying_ of a headache—but he didn’t remember drinking _at all_ last night. And the thumps below his ear were almost worryingly slow and loud and heavy and very, _very_ _close_.

They didn’t belong to him. Which meant there was another person in his bed.

There was _another person in his bed._

Victor lay very, _very_ still. The heart bumping softly against his cheek was steady and deep and almost _inhumanly_ slow. Which jogged his memory a little bit, as his brain started to stir and clear out the cobwebs leftover from his dreams.

 _Oh,_ he thought with a start, _Yuuri?_ Emerging further from the tendrils of unconsciousness, he noted the arm draped over his waist and the hand curled loosely into his hair.

Last night’s memories hit him like an angry Yurio. He almost leapt out of the bed—and out of his skin—feeling his cheeks uncharacteristically burning like coals against the fabric of his fiancé’s shirt. But the arms around him tightened infinitesimally and Yuuri sighed, long and luxuriously, against his the crown of Victor’s head while the rhythm of his heart kept its pace like the tick of a Swiss watch, sturdy and grounding as Victor calmed himself.

 _I’m here_ , he heard, loud and clear. He remembered Yuuri’s voice, firm despite the tremble in his fingertips. He shuffled closer. _Suki da yo_. One of the few things Victor knew confidently in Japanese.

Victor smiled to no one in particular; he probably looked like a goofy child drooling over all-you-can-eat ice cream, or like Makkachin in the presence of a new chew toy.

Judging by the light filtering through his blinds, it was probably just about time to get up. But as much as he hated the idea of his alarm rudely waking his peacefully slumbering fiancé, he couldn’t bring himself to move from his spot, either. Being held like this was just _too nice_ , almost surreal, almost _dreamlike_ if it weren’t for the solid weight of arms around him and the slow rise and fall of the chest he rested on and the faithful beat of the heart that loved him _so much_ in his ear.

Victor knew that he could be a bit of a coward. Thankfully, Yuuri wasn’t, not when it mattered, otherwise…

Well, otherwise, he might not have woken up like this.

So Victor stayed put, because it would be an absolute _crime_ not to.

He stayed, still and content and feeling utter _laziness_ in his bones until the alarm on his phone blared, transforming his gorgeous fiancé into a blubbering, red-faced mess.

He watched Yuuri huff and puff and dart off to the bathroom, a hand in his messy black locks and his pajama pants halfway falling down his legs as he scrambled and slid across the floor, and Victor’s chest had never— _never_ in all twenty-eight years of life—felt so light. He gripped at it, just to make sure it wouldn’t float away to the ceiling, or out the window to join whatever clouds were wandering outside.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time I'd ever napped with my ex, I discovered first-hand what athlete's heart is actually like. It was a little freakish, not going to lie there.


End file.
